


Counterfeits

by ReyloTrashCompactor (NextToSomething)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Blood, Daddy Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Mostly Smut, Previous Rey/Han Solo, Smut, This is some Freudian bullshit., smut with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-06 12:20:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12211176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NextToSomething/pseuds/ReyloTrashCompactor
Summary: His face looks less like his father’s with a smoldering slash through it.This is Rey’s last thought before the ground opens beneath her and she leaps forward to keep from being swallowed by a planet-turned-monster’s destruction. She sees Kylo Ren's face, soft mouth and smooth skin, and thinks that the wound did something to scratch Han Solo off his surface.Then the world goes black.





	Counterfeits

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a part of the 2017 Reylo Fanfiction Anthology **Celebrating the Waking** for the celebration: _Funeral._
> 
> I'm going to start right off and say this fic is dark and deals with the fact that, in this universe, Rey had sex with Han Solo on the trip to Takodana. You can read my previous story on that, _[Having](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8541124)_ , though it's not required reading. :)
> 
> Lots of sex and lots of feelings! I hope you enjoy!

_His face looks less like his father’s with a smoldering slash through it._

This is Rey’s last thought before the ground opens beneath her and she leaps forward to keep from being swallowed by a planet-turned-monster’s destruction. She sees his face, soft mouth and smooth skin, and thinks that the wound did something to scratch Han Solo off his surface.

Then the world goes black.

She wakes on a narrow cot, and her hands are lashed together before her with her own gauze wraps. She’s on a ship. She’s alive. 

She tugs her hands, but they are secured tightly enough to make the tips of her fingers a bit purple. She looks around for the lightsaber that she’s not entirely sure how she summoned, and her breath catches when she sees it. It dangles from a belt, flush against a far cruder hilt with two scorched cross guards.

Her eyes trail up and she sees him. No mask this time to frighten her when she wakes from what she assumes is the sleep he forced on her. Just his profile made awkward by a large nose and a cauterized laceration that cleaves his face. He’s focused on piloting the ship they’re in, something sleek and achingly high tech. He hasn’t seen that she’s awake yet.

“Don’t try anything stupid,” he says, and Rey blinks. He is more aware of her than she realized.

“Let me go,” she says in return. She knows from the numbness of her bound hands that he intends to do nothing of the sort, but she’d rather make demands than pleas.

He hits a final switch on the console and turns fully to her, a derisive smirk on his face. A smirk that twists in her gut. He looks so much like--

“I don’t think so, kid.”

It’s been a long time since she's eaten, or the heaving of her stomach would have produced more than just bile. She spits on the floor next to her sick, not wanting to meet his eyes. 

The man makes a noise of frustration and stands. The space inside the shuttle is small, and he makes it to the panel on the far wall in less than three strides. A few hurried touches to the screen and a small, chrome droid dispatches from the wall and glides smoothly over to where she vomited, leaving gleaming clean floor in its wake. 

When the droid clicks softly back into the wall and Rey has nothing else to hold her gaze, she looks up.

Kylo Ren is watching her. His mouth is set and his eyes are narrowed. He looks like he did in that first room where he bound her. But she doesn’t feel him in her mind. She doesn’t feel that pervasive slither that makes her skin crawl. 

His gaze is less deep, settled on her face, and then lower. Rey’s cheeks heat and she glances down, making sure her clothes are covering her as they should. Her wraps are being used for something else, of course; that much she knew. But her tunic is largely in place, if only hanging off one shoulder, revealing her collarbone and nothing else.

She looks back up, and can’t fathom the anger she sees in his glare.

“Untie me,” she says, and he shakes his head before she can even finish the command. His eyes don’t move from her skin.

“No.”

She snarls and brings her wrists to her teeth, ripping at the stringy fabric. The bands taste like salt and sand and grease, gritty and stale. She doesn’t care.

“Stop that,” he hisses, using only one hand to clasp both of hers and pull them from her mouth.

“Then let me go!”

Kylo Ren sighs and almost rolls his eyes. It’s a motion she’s startled to see, something that makes him seem even younger, seem even more like a frustrated Han Solo. Then he stands, taking the saber hilts from his belt.

Rey’s heart stutters in her chest. All she can see is the crimson blade that skewers Han Solo, front to back, straight through likely the only heart that still loved Kylo Ren. She thinks to summon the things to her hands, though she doesn’t know how accurate she’ll be bound like she is. And she can’t quite recall how she did it in the first place--

Then he turns and places them in a safe high on the wall. He uses a code she easily memorizes to open it, but then pulls off his glove with his teeth. His hand is startling white beneath. The number pad disappears when he presses his bare hand to the closed metal door, and she knows he is the only one that will be able to retrieve the weapons.

When he turns back to her, he’s tugging off the other glove with his bared hand, and somehow, seeing the man beneath all that black is more terrifying than his holding two sabers in his hands. 

And then he kneels in front of her.

Those wide, pale, blunt fingers pick at the knot at her wrists. It’s tedious work: the threads of the gauze are slipping from their loose weft and while his large hands are surprisingly nimble, he’s tied her wrappings in a series of knots that are clumsy and hopelessly tight.

He doesn’t reach for a blade to cut them, however. Rey wonders if this is because he doesn’t want to risk her turning it on him. She only entertains this possibility for a moment until it becomes obvious that he’s enjoying touching her.

As he picks at the knot with one hand, he cups her wrist in the other, or smooths a thumb over raw skin when he manages to free one knot and one layer of wrappings. Soon she realizes that she’s relaxed her hands in his as she watches him free her, and he seems to gladly hold the weight. 

Even his hands look like his father’s, though softer and paler. The thought sends a strange current of electricity through her, both remembering what those hands did to Han Solo, and what hands that looked just like this did to her. She’s warm, and she feels shame at the realization.

For as gentle as he’s being with her now, she knows how brutal he can be, to Han, to her, to Finn--

“Finn!” she gasps suddenly, and Kylo Ren stiffens. He pauses for only a moment, before slipping a finger beneath the wraps to try to loosen their grip on her chafed wrists. It’s oddly intimate, the feel of his large finger sliding into the space where her wrists are pressed together. It’s a tight fit, and she squeezes her eyes shut to try to staunch the blush that threatens to overtake her. It takes several thrusts before he’s able to wedge his finger down far enough to try to pull the fabric slack.

“The Wookie got him off-world.” There’s little comfort in these words, but she’s thankful he gave her that much. Finn might still be alive.

With his finger hooked in her bindings, he lifts her wrists to his face. Her mouth falls open when he sets his teeth to the knot she had just been gnawing at. His large nose is tickling over her skin, puffing hot breaths over her, and his lips--

He’s drooling a bit on her as he uses those crooked teeth on the gauze. They scrape against her skin with every new bite. But he doesn’t grow frustrated. This lightning strike of a man seems to be content to chew at the knot at her wrist for as long as it takes. His bottom lip keeps pressing hot and soft at the place where her palm tapers into her wrist.

Finally the binds give a bit, and she can feel the painful prickling of blood filling her hands again. Sensation comes back to her, and she realizes her fingers are brushing against the solid column of his neck. She can feel his hair, and it’s thick and fine.

The gauze falls to the floor and Kylo Ren looks up. His lips are shining with spit and he’s still holding her hands in his. She feels a lurch in her stomach and pulls her hands back.

_Monster._

She doesn’t say the word, but he seems to hear it. He smirks again and Rey can’t not see it. She can’t not hear it. Words spoken in a voice that’s as gruff as the dead man who spoke them.

_I like you, kid._

_I think I could see through you if you didn’t have any clothes on._

_You feel good--_

The smirk on Kylo Ren’s face takes a cruel turn, and for once, he looks nothing like his father.

He stands, pacing, then knocks the first aid kit he must have used on his face off the shallow counter and onto the floor. Rey flinches, suddenly realizing that her hands are still somewhat held out before her, as if attempting to catch the few drops of a desert rain in her palms. She fists her hands in the thin sheet covering the cot.

“You didn’t know Han Solo. You knew nothing of the man he truly was.” Rey startles again when he knocks a glass from the counter, sending it flying across the room. It misses her head by inches and shatters on the wall behind her, littering the cot with shards of glass.

“Just because you--!” 

The words hang hot and loud between them and Rey bares her teeth.

“Just because I _what?_ ” she says, her voice a challenge. A dare. 

He comes forward, planting hands on the mattress to either side of her hips and leaning into her. She tries to back away but glass bites into her palms, halting her retreat.

“Just because you let my father fuck you with dirty fingers and come all over your stomach doesn’t mean that you get to mourn him.”

His words suck the air from her lungs. He saw. He _saw!_ He’d watched it happen inside her head. He’d seen her laid across that table, astride Han in that chair. When? While she’d been sleeping? Or in the interrogation room?

She’s trembling--with disgust at being so violated, with embarrassment over knowing Han’s son had watched her sleep with his father for no other reason than she wanted to, with startling heat at having her sins laid so baldly at her feet. She feels filthy, wronged. Aroused in a way that makes her want to cry. 

“Eya,” he says, and Rey moans in something like pain. “That’s what he kept calling you, isn’t it? _Eya._ ”

Rey closes her eyes, pushes at his chest. 

"Eya is my mother, by the way. _Leia._ General _Leia_ Organa. He was thinking of my mother when he had you on that table like a whore."

“Stop it.” Her words are almost a whimper. She’s crying, she realizes, her teeth gritted so hard her jaw aches.

He leans forward and sweeps an arm out over the mattress, scattering glittering glass about the floor in little staccato _pings_. Rey scrambles away from him, though her back soon hits the wall. He follows after her, crawling over her on the mattress.

“He had no idea, did he?” he asks her, but she doesn’t know how to respond. “He was a fool. You--” He lifts a hand, the palm peppered with little cuts from the glass he scattered then pressed down upon. “--are so much more than _Princess Leia._ ”

There is so much contempt in his words that Rey can hardly reason out their true meaning. His eyes are working over her, taking her in greedily, hungrily. That reaching hand settles at her exposed collarbone, two fingers wiping roughly at her skin. She looks down and then sees it.

The bruise Han had made, the stippled thing he’d sucked into her skin.

Now streaked with Kylo Ren’s blood as he tries to wipe it away.

His eyes dart to her face, and Rey is having trouble breathing with him close to her like this. She can't sort through the tumult of emotions: grief, anger, fear--raw, unwelcome arousal. 

“I couldn't think of anyone else if I were inside you.” His voice is a whisper and he is so, so close. “If I had you beneath me, I would call you nothing but ‘ _mine_ ’.”

He ducks, licking the blood from her skin, then settles his lips directly over where his father's had been only hours before and sucks. Hard. It's painful, a purposeful gesture meant only to mark her, not bring her any pleasure. 

Which is why she bites into her fist to try to stifle her moan. She shouldn't. She really, really shouldn't. 

His hand comes up to cup her breast, the movement strikingly gentle in comparison to the blossoming red at her clavicle. The mark Han left is completely eclipsed by something raw and red and tender to the touch.

He nuzzles her, pressing his nose into her skin, brushing his lips over the large vein in her neck. “You should have waited for me, Rey.”

Rey shivers; he took her name, too. She never gave him that. 

“You should have waited, sweetheart. I would have treated you right.”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says, but not in a way that means ‘stop.’ Her fingers are tripping over the fabric of his high neckline, not caressing, but not pushing him away. “No,” she says again, and she realizes her eyes are closed. All she can see is Han with his fingers inside her, asking her again what she likes. “He did treat me right. He made me feel good.”

The sound he makes when he slams his fist into the durasteel wall isn’t human. It’s a roar that shakes the walls and vibrates in the hollows of her sinuses. She wants to stuff her fingers into her ears but she finds herself clinging to Kylo Ren’s shirt front instead. She curls into him, an absurd attempt at hiding from him. He holds her to him, laughing in something like disbelief into her hair. 

“Of course. Of course he did.”

He’s quieter now so she tries to crawl out from his arms. He follows, knocking more glass off the mattress as he crowds her onto the thin pillows at the head of the cot. “He make you promises, sweetheart?”

“Stop calling me that!” She pulls her knees to her chest, feeling young and stupid. “And you know that he didn’t.”

Kylo tugs her arms from around her knees and holds her wrists in his hands. “He offered you that job, kid.” The word stings, but she can’t look away from him. “He offered me that job once, too. Reneged once he figured out what I was.”

She tries to pull from his grasp. “He wouldn’t have reneged on me. I’m nothing like you.”

He yanks one of her wrists, pressing her palm into the slash across his face. It’s sticky from the bacta and fever hot. “Aren’t you, though?”

Her next attempt at pulling her hands from his grip is weaker this time, his words crumbling her from the inside out. There was a blackness that overtook her when she’d lashed out with that saber. The same blackness she’d seen in his mind when she tried to push the monster back.

He tugs her to her knees, pressing her still raw wrists to his chest.

“Kiss me,” he murmurs. “Kiss me and I’ll show you what it should have been like.”

She’s only playing at pulling away now. She finds that she wants to be held, by the same creature that caused the tears now pricking at her eyes. This is sick, this seedy rivalry he’s declared against his dead father. And she can’t make herself hate him. “He didn’t kiss me.”

Something softens on that cruel face. Something dissolves.

“He didn’t kiss you?” His voice is soft, disbelieving. As if he's disappointed in the failings of his father. 

_This is so fucked up._ Rey can only shake her head _no_ before Kylo Ren surges forward. He drops her wrists and cups her face in large hands. Tilts her chin up, doesn’t even wait before settling his soft lips over hers. 

There is a change. This whole time she’s been three steps behind him, not understanding what he wanted, why he cared so much. He spoke of teaching and learning, the ways of the Force, and yet ever since she woke he has been focused on nothing but getting her on her back and outdoing the deeds of his father. But when he licks into her mouth, kissing her so deep she almost can’t breathe, she’s right there with him. Their loneliness complements the other, clicks into place around each other and suddenly she recognizes him. That strange sadness huddled inside her AT-AT with her on nights when sleep refused to console her. She’s felt him for years, she thinks, in this thing he’d called the Force.

He pulls away only so he can set his lips to another part of her as he pulls down her hair. Gently, slowly, completely different than Han’s drunken tugs. He kisses and sucks at her neck and his hands travel down to undo her belts. She tries to help and he pries her fingers away. 

He’s insistent. There is no pause, no tentative touches between her legs because that’s what other women have wanted, no asking what she likes. He only gives it to her. Undresses her, then kisses what skin he’s revealed, only to rise over her again to kiss her lips. He kisses her lips often, so often.

“Did he do this?” he asks as he runs his tongue over the undercurve of her breast.

“No,” she shudders. “No.”

He rubs his thumbs over the points of her ribcage, over and over until her skin begins to chafe and redden. Until she arches. He pulls off her pants and dips his tongue into her navel. She’s shaking, her heart hammering in her ears. And his lips trail lower.

He presses his hands into her inner thighs, then uses his thumbs to open her to him.

“Did he do this?” he utters against her curls.

“Kylo--” Her fingers find his hair and she tries tugging him away from her. 

He nips her high on the thigh. “Answer me. Did he give you this?”

“No!” she gasps as he flicks his tongue over her. She’s not bathed since she--oh, stars, since Han--

And then Kylo curls his tongue through her, humming as he dips his tongue into her, inside her. Rey gasps at the sensation--so wet and soft and shallow. She’s squirming but he holds her in place with one hard hand on her hip. The other he lifts to his lips and sucks a finger deep into his mouth. 

She hisses air in through clenched teeth as he presses into her. She’s tender, oh kriff she’s still sore from--

“Kylo!” 

He kisses the bud at the crest of her sex, almost chastely, and begins to curl his finger inside her. “Did he make you come?”

“Stop, please. Stop asking me--”

He gives her another finger, drags his teeth over the hood shielding her from feeling _too much._ “Answer me, Rey, if you don’t want me to look for myself.”

She presses her palms into her eyes until she sees sparks behind her lids. “Yes, he did,” she gasps.

“How many times?” He’s moving more roughly now, curling and pressing on the spot that Han had introduced her to, but had also scared her away from. “How many times did my father make you come?”

Rey sobs, feeling something building. Something big and almost painful. “Once,” she chokes out as what she fears what is going to be her first, not her only, orgasm begins to wash over her. She didn’t know there was supposed to be more than one. She didn’t know--

Her sobbing morphs into a scream as he pushes and presses and massages that place inside her, sucking her clitoris noisily as he does. Precise, determined. 

What it should have been like.

There are tremors running over her sensitive skin, her limbs twitching as she relaxes down onto the thin mattress. His eyes track her movements, watch her settle awkwardly onto the cot beneath him. He doesn’t take his fingers from her--her walls are still clenching and he seems to enjoy the feel of her body revealing what she won’t.

She’s frightened, but she isn’t. She can’t look away from the ruined face above her. She fucked around with Han because she was restless, drunk and a little sad. Han was drunker, sadder, and lonely enough to lay a girl across his dejarik table who was ten years younger than his own son.

But the man above her has a slow trickle of blood running from the deforming injury she gave him not hours before, and yet he’s still eager to please her, teach her.

He waited for her, in ways that she did not.

Rey licks her lips, though her tongue is dry and sticks to the chapped skin. He watches the movement intensely, still waiting.

“He didn’t take his clothes off,” Rey offers in a low whisper. She watches his eyes darken, his jaw tense, then he gently pulls his fingers from her tender flesh.

She lays still, watching him tug off inky black pieces of clothes and armor. He finds her eyes after each piece falls to the floor, making sure she sees how different he’s making this. The black hides a great deal of blood. There are fresh burns on his arms and--

She sits up suddenly at the sight of the gut wound Chewie’s bowcaster left him with. It’s oozing dark blood and has smeared half his abdomen in red. “We need to--”

He shakes his head, pushes her back down onto the mattress though his hand never makes contact with her. “Later. After.”

She can’t stop to think what “after” might mean and lurches from the bed for the discarded first aid kit. Pain rips through her at her first step and she barely has time to cry out before Kylo’s long arm is about her middle and yanking her back onto the bed with him. Her bare back smacks against his chest and he holds her to him as she realizes what happened. 

Blood drips from her heel, and with what little she can stand to turn her foot, she sees several glass shards are still embedded in her flesh. _Stupid._

He sets her down and--still in fitted pants and boots--crunches his way to the wall panel again, summoning the droid as he picks up the pieces of the scattered kit. He lays various pieces on the bed beside her: clean gauze, bacta, scissors. He rummages around, cursing when he can’t find what he needs. He looks around, but the floor is now clean behind him. 

“No tweezers.”

He cleans his hands once he sits again on the cot, then picks up her foot, pulling glass from it as gently as he can with his bare fingers. She’d tell him to be careful, but as she’s watched him bleed a dozen different ways in the last hours, she doubts he would listen. 

It hurts when he pulls out the glass, mostly because he has to massage the cut to make sure he’s got it all out. But he’s gentle, so gentle it makes her throat ache. There’s a piece he can’t get, keeps massaging but can’t quite grip. It hurts so much Rey is sweating, her teeth clenched against moans of pain. The little shard slips through those blunt fingertips again and sinks in deeper, and Rey can’t hold back the whimper.

His eyes shoot up to her face, his brow so knit with concentration he looks almost angry with her. But his face softens and he ducks his head.

Rey slings her arm over her eyes. She can’t watch him use his mouth on her again, not after the knots, not after the pleasure he’s given her. As he digs around in her bleeding flesh with his teeth to pull out that little fragment, she can’t help but wonder if this is how he faces down any obstacle. Through his body and his own means, at whatever cost. She sees him in the snow beating the wound in his side and thinks she’s answered her own question. 

It takes longer than either of them would like, but he’s able to grip the tiny shard with that sharp canine and pull it from her. There’s blood all over his mouth, his teeth, and Rey feels her stomach turn again. She dry heaves over the side of the cot and Kylo rubs her back with comforting, sticky fingers. 

He cleans her first, her blood drying on his skin as he does. Spreads bacta over her foot and bandages her with such tenderness she’s almost angry over it. He killed Han Solo. He killed his _father_. Why is she, a girl he’s known for hours, worth this care? Once he’s done, she gets to her knees and starts on him. She can tell he hoped she’d forgotten what she planned to do, but she can’t watch that only half-cauterized blaster wound drip any more blood. She cleans each wound, using up more than one bottle of bacta, and makes a crude plaster from the rest of the gauze and some medical tape for the hole in his stomach. She doesn’t know that it will be sufficient, but she poured enough antiseptic and bacta into it that she has no other idea of what she could do better.

Then she cleans him off. It’s like he doesn’t even notice he’s covered in blood, like this is something that is so natural to him that the stink of it doesn’t register. She dabs at his mouth last, wiping her own blood from him. And he watches her, follows her every move, catches her wrist in his hand and kisses it with newly clean lips.

He gets to his knees, working at the falls of his pants. Rey’s heart seems to skip a beat as she watches him. He was never distracted from what he meant to do, she realizes. She cleaned him, fixed him, and now he is going to continue what they started.

Rey only saw pieces of Han below the belt, and she finds that she dearly doesn’t want to compare the two of them _there._ It would finally, _finally_ be too much in the sordid dance they’re stepping through. All she sees is that his skin is ruddy and flush, and that he’s impossibly hard. Dripping and straining in his fist. 

Rey settles shakily down onto the cot as he pulls the rest of his clothes off, fulfilling yet another unspoken promise. He's massive, broad chest and large, rounded shoulders. Scars, old and painfully new, stripe over every bit of him, giving an almost grotesque texture to his fair skin. His cock bobs hard and heavy before him as he leans forward over her. 

Kylo Ren reaches for her hand and brings it to his mouth. He kisses the tip of each finger, little nips and flicks of his tongue, before guiding her to where he wants her most. He lets her curl her fingers around him, stroke over him. It's a quiet intimacy Rey has never known, and she can't look anywhere but at his dark, serious eyes. He shifts and she loses her soft grip on him as he sits back to settle between her thighs. 

She bites her lip as she watches him, watches his face. He strokes over her, through her, and she gasps when he positions himself at her entrance. Whimpers as he pushes forward. 

It hurts, she’s sore from--from losing her virginity to his father the day before, but she doesn’t want to stop. She doesn't want him to stop. His mouth is parted as he watches himself enter her, and the only thing tethering her in this storm is the look of utter worship on his face. He sheaths himself fully, skin flush to skin, and her heart falters when his eyes flutter shut. 

“He didn’t look at me,” she whispers.

Kylo’s eyes snap open, and he does look at her. More than looks, he _sees_ , watches her face with an intensity that makes her self-conscious. When he starts to move, when it starts to feel good, his gaze deepens. He’s not seeing anyone but her, not feeling anything but her body around him. She feels almost like crying.

“He didn’t hold me,” she chokes out, and Kylo scoops her into his arms before she can finish the thought, fucking up into her as he cradles her small, long body to his broad chest. He’s holding her so close that his face blurs above her, his sad, attentive eyes blending into one. 

It feels good, it feels so good, so much better to be wanted for what she is, not who she might remind someone of. Better, as he promised. Worth waiting for, like he did.

“He didn’t--”

“ _Rey,_ ” he says, knowing her thought before she can say it. He presses his sweaty forehead to hers and breathes her name over her face, over and over. “ _Rey._ Darling Rey, my Rey.”

How he can hold her to him, off the bed, and still roll his hips into her in the most perfect way, she can’t fathom. He’s strong, young, hale, though not remotely whole. He doesn’t ask what she likes because he knows; he’s always, always known.

“Rey,” he groans again, and each repetition makes her hotter, wetter. She’s close, she has a second in her when she’d only just discovered her first, and she feels her body bearing down on him, drawing in.

He kisses her mouth at the first tremors, though he doesn’t tilt his head. Just mashes their noses together and kisses her so he doesn’t have to close his eyes, doesn’t have to look away from her, though from this close he surely can’t _actually_ see her. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, because he’s kissing her and making her feel pleasure in her core, her scalp, her wounded soles of her feet, her fingertips. She’s crying out, shouting the sound against his lips and into his open mouth. He breathes the noise in like it will sustain him.

“I’m going to-- Can I--?” 

“Yes!” she gasps, because that’s something else his father didn’t do. Didn’t hold her close when he came undone. Didn’t risk anything at all with her body or her heart. Took pleasure, but made no effort to actually keep her. Mark her as his.

“Rey. Mine. My girl. My Rey,” Kylo Ren mutters, as if punctuating this last difference.

He spills hot and deep and she’s still clutching around him, she’s thinking of nothing but how right it feels. How nothing else will feel right in its place. She couldn’t fuck someone who looked like him and find release. She couldn’t take a forgery, or only half of this. 

Not now that she’s had what the Force has been whispering all along.

He doesn’t put her down, carries her with him when he stands and walks to pull food from a cabinet. Kylo props himself up on the bed, her laid against his chest, and feeds her small bites of bread, dried berries she can’t identify. They don’t speak for a very long time.

“I didn’t know,” she says after what may have been hours, picking absently at some of the medical tape that’s come loose on his ribs. “I… I felt something. I felt you, but I didn’t know. It didn’t know it was you.” She isn’t making sense, but the idea that the ache she’s felt lying beside her on her pallet for all these years wasn’t entirely of her own making is still fresh and confusing. “Maybe that’s why I--”

Kylo squeezes her, kisses the top of her head. “Please. Don’t say it.”

She nods, and she knows that the shine is wearing off on this. She’s in a ship with Kylo Ren, heading who knows where. She needs to return to the Resistance. She can’t be a part of his side of all this.

“I won’t join you,” she says, and her heart breaks with the words. She almost wants to take them back, but even though she’s found a piece of her that’s been missing, there are more important things. Finn, who would never hurt her. The cause Han Solo died trying to bring about. All those people who are dead because of the man whose heartbeat is fluttering against her temple. “I won’t join you, not so long as you are like this.”

He holds her tighter, as if he can keep her in place with just his body, solving another problem with his hands and teeth. And maybe he can--Rey’s been left behind, but she’s never made that choice herself. She’s never been the one to abandon another.

“Come back with me,” she offers weakly, knowing already what he’ll say.

He snorts, kisses her head again, and she feels as if he’s patronizing her. “They’d kill me, sweetheart. I come back with you, and you’ll never see me again.” There’s a mocking sort of humor in his voice and she tenses. 

He shushes her, running cool fingers down her spine, but she’s not completely mollified.

“You won’t even consider what we could be together?” he asks, and she shakes her head vigorously. She can’t. She can’t even entertain the idea because if she does, she’s afraid she’ll want it.

“I have to go back. If you don’t let me go…”

She lets those words hang between them. He won’t want it, but he can truly deny her nothing. He’d die first.

He continues petting her, and she inches down his torso a bit. His stroking fingers slide lower, toying with her were she’s sore and still damp. Touches her until she’s squirming, then pulls his stiff cock from between them and positions himself. She splays her hands on his chest and pushes herself up, the movement sinking her down onto him.

She rolls her hips and hums. She doesn’t know what she has left in her body, but she’ll use it up on him. She’s unpracticed at this angle and his wide hands on her hips guide her in something slow and impossibly deep. Neither is quick to finish, and Rey is almost glad that it lasts so long, no matter how much she aches between her legs. 

He’s still inside her when she collapses back to his chest, breathing deep and filmy with sweat.

“I’ll find you again,” he promises. “You can’t have this with anyone else.”

“And neither can you,” she huffs against his skin. 

He’s still inside her when she falls asleep, and she finds odd comfort in a physical tether to match the one between their souls.

.

.

.

When Rey sets foot on the Resistance base, it’s moments before Han Solo’s funeral. She follows her escort, introductions and debriefings delayed for the rest of the day, and finds a place to stand near the edge of an unsurprisingly large and diverse crowd. There’s an urn with some debris from Starkiller, and it’s draped in a worn leather jacket.

She spots Leia easily. She’s never seen her, but she knows that it’s her. She’s small but rigid, her grey-streaked hair pulled back in a complicated hairstyle that makes Rey’s guts twist. 

_You just remind me of someone, is all. She could do a million things with her hair. Different every time I saw her._

She’s beautiful, and Rey can understand why Han thought of this woman while he was inside her. She hates it, feels dirty and sick, but she thinks she understands, even if she could never do so herself.

Kylo’s mother. _Ben._ That’s what Han had called him. Ben looks like his mother too, around the eyes and with that fine skin. She’d never been able to reconcile the man’s eyes with those of his father, and now she knows why. The eyes belong to this woman, who sits still and refuses to let them cry.

Rey can’t focus on what is being said; she can only focus on the small yet unwavering woman closest to the altar. A movement beyond her catches Rey’s eye, and she sees a large man in a hooded grey cloak moving slowly in the direction of the general. Her heart lurches when she realizes, hand reaching for the saber she clawed out of Kylo’s clenched fist. But he stops behind Leia, hooded head tilted down to her and not looking at the shrine. He touches the woman briefly on the shoulder, and Rey’s hand tightens on her hilt. But he only touches her, then moves away through the crowd before Leia can see who comforted her, tugging his hood down lower.

Rey considers chasing after him, but that would just get her back where she started. She watches him, watches as he turns back to look at the altar honoring what is left of his father. Then he turns in Rey’s direction. She can’t see his face, but she can feel him looking at her.

This means something, him being here. He’s found their base, and that should be disastrous. And maybe it will be--but not today. 

_Just because you killed him doesn’t mean you can’t mourn him. It doesn’t mean you didn’t love him._

He turns away. She doesn’t know if he can feel her words, but it doesn’t much matter. The death of Han Solo will always be his fault, will always be a sin that he can never undo. It will always be wrong, and terrible, and unforgivable. But perhaps, she thinks as she loses sight of his retreating figure, the death of Han Solo will also be the death of Kylo Ren, and bring back the son Han tried to save.

Han wasn’t quite done, and Rey thinks she can finish what he started.

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a moment and let me know what you thought. I love any and all feedback. <3


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